ziggywho

[ziggywho]

"Jeez, who starts a conversation like that?" Ziggy’s lips twitch around the words, a chuckle slipping loose. soft, amused, just a little disbelieving. He closes his book with a lazy sort of finality, fingers lingering over the worn spine before his gaze lifts to meet hers.

She carries herself like someone who already knows the answers to most questions-- like she’s heard them all before and found them boring, without anything to challenge the glint in her eye. There’s something polished about her, facets shined to a blinding perfection, but Ziggy’s met too many people like that to assume the shine isn’t armor. It’s not a question of whether she’s hiding something. It’s a question of whether she cares if he sees it.

But that’s not what she asked him, is it?

Her question was about him. About what he does. About whether thi conversation was something intentional, something part of his process, or just another passing thing to remember weeks from now, incidental and nothing.

"That would be telling." The words come quiet, curved at the edges, his fingers dragging slow around the rim of his glass. The matcha is still untouched, bright green against the dim light of the café, but he makes no move to sip it. Instead, he tilts his head, letting the moment breathe, letting the silence settle thick between them before he breaks it again.

"Something tells me you’re not the type to be collected. To sit on a shelf and gather dust." He watches her, wondering if that's something she'd let lie or grasp with her fingers tight, if she’ll try to pry him open the way she seems so sure he’s trying to pry her.

there was something about the way he said it — like he’d already drawn his conclusions about her, like he’d set her down in a neat little category in his head before she even sat down. that kind of self-assuredness, that quiet way of seeing people, it didn’t bother her. not really. but it did make her wonder just how much he thought he already knew. she tilted her head slightly, studying him over the rim of her cup before finally taking the seat he’d gestured to. a slow, deliberate movement, the kind that said i’m here because i choose to be, not because you invited me. “funny,” she murmured, settling in. “i’ve spent most of my life trying to do the opposite. turns out, avoiding things just makes them show up louder.” the coffee between her hands was hot, grounding. she took a small sip, letting the warmth settle into her before setting the cup down with a quiet clink against the table. her fingers lingered on the rim, tracing it absentmindedly, but her eyes stayed fixed on him. ziggy had a way of holding a moment, like he was keeping it in his pocket for later. some people filled silence because they couldn’t stand the weight of it — ziggy let it stretch, let it breathe, like he wanted to see what would happen when you let the quiet settle into your bones. nik wasn’t sure yet if she found that irritating or interesting. “so, tell me,” she continued, her tone light but laced with something sharper underneath, something testing. “do you collect conversations like you collect moments? or is this one just incidental?” she leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, watching him as she waited for his answer. she’d met people like him before — people who noticed things, who liked to peel back layers, who found meaning in everything whether it was meant to be there or not. the question was, what did he think he saw in her?

[ziggywho]

Alfie’s laugh startles Ziggy out of his deep, distracted reverie, yanking him back into the moment like he’d just been shaken awake. His eyes snap from the vending machine to Alfie, and suddenly he’s lost-- trapped in a gaze that feels like it’s seeing right through him. Past the stuttering, past the stupid words, past the pathetic attempt at redirection. And instead of prying, instead of pressing, Alfie just… lets it go. Waves it off like it’s nothing. Like it’s not even worth getting hung up on.

There’s no accusation, no digging for answers, no so, what’s your deal, then? Just a casual kindness that catches Ziggy completely off guard. And suddenly, that is the thing scrambling his brain, that realization hitting harder than anything else: Alfie was nice.

Ziggy blinks, hand rubbing absently at his cheek, feeling the warmth creeping in where Alfie’s gaze holds him still. And shit, is it just him, or is it way too hot in here? They should really crack open a window. Or knock down a wall. Or throw the whole laundromat in the ocean, because Jesus Christ, breathe, man. He doesn’t know if he’s overheating because Alfie was being kind--....or because Alfie was, in a deeply inconvenient way, also kind of devastatingly hot.

He swallows. Feels it catch in his throat, like even that is betraying him. And when he finally manages to talk, the words tumble out way too fast, and he immediately wants to reach out and stuff them back in his mouth before he has to hear himself. "Yeah... yeah, no, I’m fine. Totally fine." He drags a hand through his hair, hoping the motion will physically reset him. A pause, then, with a forced, nervous laugh, "Really hope that thing’s not still in there, though. That’d be…I feel like that'd be a felony at this point. Some kind of biological warfare." He gestures vaguely, grasping at anything to latch onto. "I'm too pretty to deal with consequences."

There’s a beat of silence where he wonders if Alfie is going to call him on how much he’s spiraling. Instead, the other man just leans back, effortless as ever, throwing out an easy out-- corner shop cookies, no pressure. And that’s what does it. The casual pivot. The breathing room. Fuck.

Ziggy exhales through his nose, tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. His mouth quirks, just a little, and he tilts his head toward the door with an exaggerated sigh. "Alright, fine," he mutters, like he’s reluctantly giving in to something they both knew he was never going to say no to. As if shaking off whatever just happened, he shifts forward, extending his hand towards Alfie for him to pull Ziggy free of his laundry cart shackles. "But if we get there and they’re out of oatmeal raisin, you gotta buy me a different consolation snack."

Alfie had seen a lot of strange shit in his life, but watching Ziggy short-circuit in real time might’ve just cracked the top ten. He didn’t say anything at first—just leaned against the machine a bit more, arms folded, one brow cocked as he waited the lad out. No rush. He wasn’t in a hurry, and judging by the way Ziggy looked like he was contemplating falling into the Earth’s crust, he figured silence was the better option than piling on.

Then, finally, the poor bloke sputtered out a half-coherent apology and tried to pivot into vending machine egg lore like nothing had happened. Alfie blinked once. Twice.

And then he started laughing.

Not a loud, booming one—but a soft, almost disbelieving snort that turned into a proper grin as he shook his head, scrubbing a hand down his jaw.

“You alright there, mate? Look like you just saw God and forgot your lines.” His voice was warm, teasing, but not unkind. He nudged Ziggy lightly with the side of his arm. “Take a breath. S’nothin’ serious. Just laundry and ghost eggs, apparently.”

He glanced toward the vending machine with mock skepticism, like it might be harboring some ancient poultry curse. “That egg still in there, you reckon? Could be a legend now. Local folklore.”

He looked back at Ziggy then, his grin softening just slightly. “Hey. You don’t gotta explain yourself, yeah? Everyone’s carryin’ somethin’. Least you’re not pretendin’ everything’s sunshine and fuckin’ roses. That’s rare, far as I’m concerned.”

He held Ziggy’s gaze for a beat longer, then gestured lazily at the washing machine. “Anyway. Once these finish, I say we go in on one of those sugar coma cookies from the corner shop. Least we’ll have earned it after bravin’ this hellhole.”

And with that, Alfie leaned back again like it was the most casual suggestion in the world, letting Ziggy breathe—no pressure, no fuss.

[ziggywho]

Great. So Ziggy did make it weird, and now this guy was offering him an out. Wonderful.

If he could sink deeper into the wire lattice of this laundry cart, just melt into the cold, dirty laundromat floor, he would. In fact, maybe he should. Should he leave? Just... abandon his laundry to whoever walked in next, let some stranger inherit his boxers and start over at the nearest Walmart? Because clearly, he could never come back here again-- if he did, he might see Alfie, and then they'd both have to stand there and remember when Ziggy got a little high and decided now was the time to unload about his sick mom and how heavy everything felt and wow, holy shit, was he spiraling? It felt like he was spiraling.

How long had he been sitting here in dead silence? A second? Hopefully just a second. Not a minute. Definitely not a full minute. Oh, God. Had it been an hour?

He blinked, the silence crashing in around him, and realized he had no idea if he'd moved at all in the last few seconds. When he looked up, Alfie was still watching him, gaze steady, like he was waiting. Like maybe Ziggy did look a little paler than before. Okay. No. No, he didn't black out. He was just... doing that thing again. Letting himself get lost in his own head.

Ziggy shook his head, cleared his throat—just for something to break the tension, because Jesus, it was suffocating. "Uh... sorry, I think I... y'know. What?" He paused, brain scrambling, then latched onto the one thing he could remember Alfie saying. He turned toward the vending machine, scratching at his cheek like maybe that would make him look a little less like he was actively malfunctioning.

"Y’know, when I was a kid, my brothers and I stuck an egg in that machine to see how long it’d take for someone to get it when they bought something." The silence was starting to creep in again as Ziggy thought, something flickering across his face. A realization? Then, almost absently: "...I don't actually know if anyone ever did."

Alfie  didn’t  look  away,  didn’t  let  the  moment  slip  past  like  it  wasn’t  there.  He  caught  the  way  Ziggy  tensed  up,  the  way  he  crossed  his  arms  like  it  might  physically  hold  something  back.

But  more  than  anything,  he  caught  the  way  Ziggy  tried to  brush  it  off.

It’s  just  comfy  in  here,  man.

Alfie’s  lips  ticked  up  slightly,  like  he  might  buy  that—except  he  absolutely  didn’t.

“Right,  yeah.  Dead  comfy,  that.”  He  knocked  his  knuckles  against  the  side  of  the  wire  laundry  cart,  grinning  like  an  absolute  dickhead.  “What  is  it,  the  rigid  metal  bars?  The  lack  of  personal  space?  Proper  luxury  accommodations.”

He  let  the  joke  sit  just  long  enough  before  his  expression  eased  up  a  little,  the  teasing  still  there,  but  softer  now.

Because  Ziggy  wasn’t  just  deflecting.  He  was  spiraling.  Trying  to  climb  back  up  out  of  whatever  hole  he’d  just  accidentally  dug  for  himself.

Alfie  knew  that  move  too  well.

Didn’t  mean  he  was  gonna  let  him  get  away  with  it.

When  Ziggy  finally  landed  on  that  last  throwaway  line—just  something  you  gotta  do,  right?—Alfie  huffed  a  quiet  breath,  rolling  his  jaw.

“Yeah,  mate.  I  guess.”

He  didn’t  press  it,  didn’t  dig  deeper,  but  there  was  something  in  the  way  he  said  it—something  honest,  unpolished.

‘Cause  yeah.  That  was  exactly  it,  wasn’t  it?

Sometimes  you  just  had  to  do  shit.  Even  when  you  weren’t  sure  you  wanted  to.  Even  when  it  sat  like  a  weight  in  your  chest,  heavy  as  fuck  and  impossible  to  shift.

Alfie  let  a  few  beats  pass,  eyes  flicking  over  Ziggy’s  posture—the  way  his  fingers  curled  tight  around  his  sleeves,  like  he  was  trying  to  anchor  himself.

Then,  finally,  he  exhaled  through  his  nose,  grinning  again,  but  this  time  there  was  a  little  more  warmth  to  it.

“Dunno  ‘bout  you,  mate,  but  I’m  thinkin’  next  laundry  day  calls  for  less  life-altering  revelations  and  more  questionable  vending  machine  snacks.”

He  tilted  his  head  toward  the  aggressively  humming  vending  machine  in  the  corner.  “Ain’t  gonna  say  I  trust  the  look  of  that  thing,  but  we  both  might  need  a  fuckin’  reset  after  this  one.”

A  casual  out,  if  Ziggy  wanted  it.  An  easy  pivot  back  to��bullshit.

But  Alfie  still  didn’t  look  away.

If  Ziggy  wanted  to  talk,  Alfie  was  still  here.

[ziggywho]

Ziggy needed places like these. Places where the world felt suspended, where time bent around the slow churn of coffee machines and the quiet murmur of strangers. Places where the world stopped while it still spun, where he could sit in slow motion while everything else blurred past—people meeting for the first time, leaving for the last. A little girl asking for napkins all by herself. An old man hesitating over his first sip of matcha. It was nothing. It was everything. And for someone so obsessed with capturing the intangible, with freezing moments before they slipped away, it mattered.

So, yeah, he heard her before she spoke to him. Not the words, not yet, but the weight of her presence, the shift in the air. His eyes stayed on the book in his hands, but he was already aware of her, of the way she carried herself, like she was meant to be noticed. When he finally lifted his head, he met her gaze without hesitation, taking her in the way he took in everything, thoughtfully, curiously, like he was cataloging her in real time.

"I always thought coming here was to face everything," he murmured, voice easy, unhurried, like he’d been sitting on the thought for a while. He didn’t smile, but there was something knowing in the way he looked at her. Something that said, I see you.

His hand shifted, a quiet invitation as he gestured toward the seat across from him. "Hard not to when just existing makes you part of the conversation."

closed starter: utp!! (@beauregard-less/@ziggywho) || location: sunrise cafe - early morning

nik stepped into sunrise café, the warm glow of early morning light spilling through the windows and casting long shadows on the floor. it was one of those places you didn’t expect to find in palmview. the scent of fresh pastries and brewing coffee filled the air, comforting in its familiarity, but nik wasn’t here for comfort. she moved to the counter, the soft hum of conversation from a few early risers at the tables around her barely making an impact. the barista gave her a nod, already reaching for the espresso machine without needing to ask for her order. “just the usual,” nik muttered, her fingers tapping the counter idly as she leaned against it. the café was quiet this time of day, the kind of calm before the storm that felt almost sacred. the sun was barely up, and the town hadn’t quite found its rhythm yet, which meant nik could have a moment to herself. no rush, no noise — just the feeling of the world waking up around her. she took the moment to let her eyes wander, scanning the room. a couple of people were scattered across the tables, nursing cups of coffee or reading their papers. some locals. no one she recognized. the barista slid her drink over with a faint smile, and she gave a short nod in return, picking up the warm cup. “thanks.” nik didn’t waste time. she turned to face the rest of the café, her eyes catching on a figure sitting by the window — someone she hadn’t seen in a while. the stranger was lost in a book, unaware of the world around them. there was something about them. something that pulled at her attention. “you know,” nik started, her voice low but carrying enough to be heard across the quiet room, “people usually come here to get away from everything. but that’s never really worked out for me.” her gaze stayed fixed on the figure, curious, wondering if they’d even acknowledge her. it was early, sure, but in a town like palmview, it was always the perfect time for unexpected encounters.

[ziggywho]

Ah, fuck. There he went again. Couldn’t keep a conversation smooth, couldn’t keep from steering it straight into the jagged edges. He hadn’t meant to make it a thing. Hadn’t meant to lay it out there, raw and fraying, like some kind of sob story meant for character development. It was just a laundromat. Just two guys stuck in the same place by coincidence. Alfie owed him nothing-- not his time, not his sympathy, not even the space to acknowledge what he’d said. Ziggy had been fully prepared to wave it off, let the words dissolve into nothing, make some mention of the movie theater or a dumb joke about the weirdly intense vending machine in the corner.

But Alfie didn’t let it slide. And that, more than anything, made Ziggy hesitate.

He should say whatever, man, should shake it off with that easygoing, breezy bullshit he was always so good at pretending to be. Should redirect, deflect, reframe. But instead, he looked up, met Alfie’s grin-- disarming, coaxing, like it was just a conversation. Like it wasn’t loaded.

So he shrugged, arms crossing over his chest, as if that might hold something in place. "It’s just comfy in here, man." A shitty excuse, but better than the truth. And now was definitely a bad time to notice Alfie’s shoulders. Wasn’t it? Was this that thing Dr. Oswald kept nagging him about—his habit of distraction, of redirection? And now, Isaac, what do you really think would happen if you let yourself sit with that uncomfortable feeling for longer than a few seconds? Ugh. Not going down that road right now!

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face, as though that might be enough to scrape off the awkwardness clinging to him. "...Listen, I, uh… didn’t mean to make this shit weird." His voice felt rough, like it had splintered somewhere deep in his throat. "It’s... y'know. Not your problem-- Not that it’s a problem or anything, just, y’know… that’s how I ended up back here." The clearing of his throat came heavier this time, trying to dislodge something more than just words. Trying to shake off the weight settling in his bones, the quiet press of his anxiety. God, he wished he had more of that fucking weed cookie that he was finally ready to admit was a fucking weed cookie.

"Just… something you gotta do. Right? What we all gotta do." There. That should be enough. That should be the end of it. A shrug, a dismissal, an easy out. But still, his fingers curled just a little tighter around the fabric of his sleeves.

Alfie  had  been  fully  ready  to  keep  taking  the  piss,  to  keep  pressing  Ziggy  just  to  see  how  much  he’d  squirm,  but  the  moment  he  caught  the  shift  in  tone—the  way  that  cocky,  teasing  front  cracked  just  a  little—he  knew  this  wasn’t  that  kind  of  conversation  anymore.

His  smirk  dimmed,  not  quite  disappearing,  but  softer  now.

He  didn’t  jump  in  when  Ziggy  started  talking.  Just  listened,  arms  folded  against  the  washer,  gaze  steady  but  not  prying.  Because  yeah—this?  This  wasn’t  the  kind  of  thing  people  just  said  unless  they  needed  to  get  it  out.

His  mom’s  sick.

It  wasn’t  exactly  the  same,  but  it  was  close  enough  to  hit.  That  feeling  of  being  the  one  who  had  to  step  up,  the  one  who  couldn’t  just  fuck  off  and  pretend  like  nothing  was  happening.

He  let  Ziggy  finish,  not  interrupting,  not  dismissing  it  with  a  casual  ‘ah,  that’s  rough’  like  most  people  would. Just  letting  it  sit.

Finally,  after  a  beat,  Alfie  let  out  a  low  breath,  tapping  his  fingers  against  the  metal.

“Yeah,”  he  murmured,  nodding  slightly.  “Makes  sense.”

Not  just  the  moving  thing.  All  of  it.

A  second  passed  before  he  glanced  back  over,  giving  Ziggy  a  small,  lopsided  smirk.  “And  here  I  was,  thinkin’  I  was  the  only  one  runnin’  ‘round  Palmview  with  a  load  of  family  bullshit  weighin’  me  down.”

He  tilted  his  head  slightly.  “That’s  a  lot  to  take  on,  bruv.  You  alright  with  all  that?  ‘Cause  I  know  everyone’s  **real  good  at  sayin’  shit  ‘makes  sense,’  but  that  don’t  always  mean  it  sits  right.’”

There  was  no  pity  in  his  tone,  no  attempt  at  some  deep,  emotional  moment.  Just  curiosity.  Just  understanding.

He  knocked  his  knuckles  lightly  against  the  side  of  Ziggy’s  cart,  smirking  again.  “And  before  you  tell  me  you’re  ‘breezy’  or  whatever  bullshit  you  was  tryin’  to  pull  earlier—lemme  remind  you  that  you’re  currently  talkin’  to  me  from  inside  a  fuckin’  laundry  basket.”

He  raised  an  eyebrow,  grinning.  “So,  y’know.  Take  that into  account.”

[ziggywho]

"Hm? Sorry, did you say something?" Ziggy snorted, his head pillowed by folded arms as he watched Alfie, feigning obliviousness with the kind of ease that only made it more obvious.

Okay, yeah, maybe the cookie Slater gave him earlier was hitting a little weird. Or maybe it was just this, the way Alfie looked at him, sharp and knowing, like he was giving him a chance to backpedal but fully expecting him not to. And, well, Ziggy had never been great at letting things go when he should.

His eyes caught on Alfie’s, and for a second, that lazy confidence faltered. He looked away almost immediately, clearing his throat, eyes flicking to the ceiling. His foot bounced inside the wire cart, nerves creeping in where smugness had been just a second ago.

Alright, so maybe he wasn’t as smooth as he thought. He got cocky. Sue him.

But when Alfie started talking, Ziggy listened. Really listened. Because that, the tangled mess of obligation and resentment, of chasing ghosts you weren’t even sure you wanted to find, was something he understood way too well. Different circumstances, sure, but the same quiet weight.

He exhaled, scrunching his nose in thought. "...My mom's sick," he murmured, before blinking, like he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that. He cleared his throat, shaking his head. "She’s okay, though! Just... older, y'know? And my brothers are out of the country, so there's no one else here to help her while she recovers."

His eyes flicked back to Alfie, half-hoping he'd just go back to folding his laundry. It was easier to pretend he was breezy when they weren’t making direct eye contact.

"Once she’s better, I’m gonna help her move back to Japan with my dad," he continued, rolling a loose thread between his fingers. "She’s been... y’know, alone since we all moved out, and my dad doesn’t... well, maybe can’t is the better word, I dunno, but he doesn’t visit as often as he used to. Just makes sense for her to go back. Be with family. Be surrounded by our culture again."

His voice trailed off, a little quieter now, like he wasn’t sure what else to say. Like saying it out loud made it more real.

Alfie  arched  an  eyebrow,  watching  Ziggy  stretch  and  twirl  his  damn  hair  like  he  wasn’t  just  fully  caught  in  4K  checking  him  out.

“Inspectin’  something,  yeah?”  he  repeated,  grinning  slow,  like  he  was  giving  him  a  chance  to  walk  that  back.  Ziggy  didn’t.  Interesting. Alfie  let  the  silence  sit  for  a  second,  just  long  enough  to  make  the  moment  hang  before  he  huffed  out  a  low  chuckle,  shaking  his  head.  “Nah,  go  on  then,  mate.  Don’t  be  shy  now.  What’s  the  verdict?  You  find  what  you  were  lookin’  for?”

His  smirk  was  lazily  amused,  but  his  eyes  were  sharp.  He  wasn’t  oblivious.  Didn’t  mind,  either.

Still,  he  let  it  go—for  now.

He  tilted  his  head  slightly  at  Ziggy’s  answer,  listening,  filing  it  away.  Raised  here,  but  not  really  here.  Sounded like  a  man  with  a  complicated  relationship  to  a  place.  Alfie  got  that.

Then  Ziggy  hit  him  with  the  big  question.  Why  Palmview?

Alfie  let  out  a  sharp  scoff,  rubbing  his  jaw.  “Bruv,  trust  me,  I  ask  myself  that  every  fuckin’  day.”

He  stretched  his  legs  out,  arms  folded  over  his  chest.  “Ain’t  some  grand  plan,  if  that’s  what  you’re  thinkin’.  Didn’t  spin  a  globe  and  land  on  Florida  like  some  life-changing  epiphany.”  He  smirked,  shaking  his  head.  “Nah,  it’s  a  bit  shittier  than  that.  Went  down  a  rabbit  hole,  found  out  my  deadbeat  old  man’s  out  ‘ere  somewhere.  Figured  I’d,  y’know,  track  the  prick  down. See  if  he’s  even  worth  the  trouble.”

His  expression  didn’t  change  much,  still  casual,  but  there  was  something  a  little  cooler  underneath  it.  “Ain’t got  high  hopes,  but  hey,  I  needed  a  change  of  scenery  anyway.  Might  as  well  see  it  through.”

He  flicked  a  glance  back  at  Ziggy,  grinning  again,  just  slightly.  “What  about  you,  then?  You  come  back  ‘cause  you  wanted  to,  or  did  Palmview  just  drag  you  back  by  the  scruff?”

[ziggywho]

Ziggy could do this. He just had to commit and not immediately spiral into second-guessing himself. Easy.

With a small nod, he took a step back, giving her space as he fished a quarter from his pocket and slotted it into the machine. "I mean, it's just Pac-Man," he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking up in something that was almost confidence. "I think you gotta give yourself more credit than that."

The cabinet lit up, bursting to life with its cheery little jingle, the screen flickering with neon ghosts and endless corridors. He lingered nearby, not too close, but not too far, either, to give her the space to settle in at the controls. His hand found the back of his neck, scratching absently as he debated whether to offer some kind of helpful advice or just... let her figure it out.

"Uh... if you don't like this, we could always play something else," he said after a moment, then immediately blinked, clearing his throat as warmth crept up his neck. "O-Or, like... you can. And I can, uh... y'know." He gestured vaguely at the rest of the arcade. "Didn't mean to, like, trap you into this or whatever. But if there’s a game you wanted to try, I could... I dunno. Help? If you wanted?"

Jesus Christ. Flawless execution. Nailed it.

rehearsed  expression  returned  effortlessly  ,  that  flash  of  emotion  washed  away  with  a  simple  blink.  a  place  like  this  was  filled  with  memories  ,  some  she  wished  to  relive  and  others  she  would  prefer  to  forget  but  nell  knew  that  when  she'd  made  the  decision  to  attend.  a  place  like  the  arcade  was  filled  with  distractions  though  ,  and  that's  what  she  needed  now  more  than  anything  in  hopes  to  quieten  the  growing  noise  in  subconscious.  

greeting  him  with  soft  smile  ,  shoulders  rotate  anti  -  clockwise  into  a  neutral  position  and  drop  until  she's  relaxed.  silence  between  them  wasn't  awkward  ,  something  she  was  grateful  for  and  she  decided  to  take  a  step  towards  him  —  accepting  his  offer  of  attempting  a  round  on  the  machine  that'd  bewitched  her  attention  upon  arrival.  "  if  i  get  double  digits  ,  i'm  considering  that  a  win.  "  she  jokes  ,  but  soundlessly  praying  she  could  at  least  achieve  that  or  more  ,  and  save  herself  the  embarrassment.  

[ziggywho]

"I’ve got a radar for this kind of thing, actually. Picked up on all those subtle, imperceptible quirks of yours," Ziggy snorted, watching as Alfie’s accent seemed to deepen the more he focused on it, like it was leaning into being perceived. Okay, yeah-- maybe he’d been looking a little too long. But could you blame him? Don’t answer that. What mattered was that he’d been caught, and since he hadn’t exactly been trying to not get caught, he might as well own it. His grin was lopsided, lazy, fingers drumming idly along the high plane of his cheekbone.

"Sorry, what was that? I was just—" he waved a vague hand in Alfie’s direction, like that explained anything at all. "Inspecting something, is all." He stretched, long limbs reaching up in a way that made the whole thing look even more nonchalant, like this was just the most obvious thing in the world. No big deal. Moving on. His hand dropped back down, fingers finding the flop of his bangs, twirling a strand as he spoke.

"I'm both. And neither, I guess," he mused, his voice dipping into something quieter, more absentminded. "I was raised here, but... I haven't been here in years." His gaze flicked back to Alfie, catching that grin head-on, and, God help him, he found himself grinning back. Weird. Why was it so much easier to just talk to this guy? To joke, to lean into something easy and effortless? He sure as hell didn’t have this kind of smoothness when talking to literally anyone else. He was still cringing over the awkward joke he’d made to his barista this morning.

(Was it concerning that the only thing he ate today was a cookie Slater gave him? He should probably unpack that. Later.)

Instead, he tilted his head, voice dipping into something lazy, curious. "Why the transplant? Of all the places you could move to, you picked Palmview?"

Alfie  didn’t  even  look  up  from  his  crime,  tossing  a  particularly  wrinkled  shirt  into  the  basket  with  the  same  ruthless  efficiency  he’d  applied  to  the  rest  of  the  abandoned  laundry.

“Don’t  play  with  me,  bruv,”  he  said,  grinning  slightly.  “I  ain’t  scared  of  hauntings,  but  I’d  rather  not  be  cursed  by  some  pissed-off  geezer  over  his  boxer  shorts.  Got  enough  bad  luck  as  is.”

He  finally  glanced  over  just  in  time  to  watch  Ziggy  struggle  with  the  chair,  shifting  around  like  some  gangly  newborn  deer  before  ultimately  giving  up  entirely  and  climbing  into  a  damn  laundry  cart.

Alfie  blinked.  Then  huffed  out  a  low,  amused  laugh.

“Right,”  he  said,  dry  but  entertained.  “Guess  we’re  just  fully  leanin’  into  the  madness  now.”  He  flicked  his eyes  back  to  the  dryer,  but  his  smirk  lingered  as  he  shook  his  head.  “You  do  look  like  you  belong  in  there, though.  Proper  Dickensian  orphan  energy.  Bet  you’d  thrive  in  a  Victorian  workhouse.”

He  tossed  another  stray  sock  into  the  basket,  glancing  over  at  them  again.  “Ziggy,  yeah?  Fittin’  name.”  He  gave  a  lazy  nod,  tucking  that  info  away.  “And  mate,  you  was  really  ‘bout  to  do  bathtub  laundry?  That’s  tragic.  That’s  the  kinda  thing  they  put  in  them  ‘before  they  were  famous’  documentaries—‘started  from  the  bottom,  now  we  here’  type  beat.”

Alfie  paused  mid-toss,  blinking  as  Ziggy  gave  him  the  slow,  deliberate  once-over  like  he  was  some  kind  of  rare  specimen  on  display.

Then,  after  a  beat,  he  huffed  out  a  sharp  laugh,  shaking  his  head.  “Oi,  mate,  what  gave  it  away?  The  devastating  good  looks?  The  air  of  quiet  sophistication?”

He  leaned  against  the  dryer,  arms  folded,  smirking.  “Or was  it  the  fact  that  I  sound  like  I  just  stepped  off  a  bus  from  Camden?”

His  accent  was  thick,  unapologetic,  every  word  dipped  in  sharp  edges  and  easy  humor.  “Yeah,  I’m  English,  bruv.  Proper  London-born  and  raised.  Been  in  Palmview  about  a  month  now,  though,  and  so  far,  nobody  ‘ere  understands  a  single  fuckin’  word  I  say.”

He  nodded  toward  Ziggy,  eyes  flicking  over  them  curiously.  “What  about  you,  then?  You  doin’  the  usual  Florida  transplant  thing,  or  am  I  dealin’  with  a  local?”

Then,  as  if  the  thought  had  just  struck  him,  he  narrowed  his  eyes  playfully.  “And  while  we’re  at  it—what’s  with  the  inspectin’  me  like  I’m  a  dodgy  antique?”  He  grinned.  “You  tryna  work  out  if  I’m  real,  or  you  just  enjoyin’  the  view?”

[ziggywho]

Alfie didn’t pause in his crime, and Ziggy had to admit, there was something admirable about that level of shamelessness. Not a hint of hesitation-- just pure, unrepentant laundromat lawlessness.

“Man, this would’ve been an insane time to tell you that was Old Man McGirk’s laundry and that he haunts the place,” Ziggy snorted, settling into the plastic chair indicated. Or, at least trying to. His legs felt too long for it, like a spider trying to sit politely at a dinner table, so he shifted one way, then the other, before finally huffing and getting back up altogether. He moved to grab a nearby laundry cart and wheeled it over, hopping inside and curling against the wire lattice. The one upside to being built like a malnourished Victorian child-- he fit.

“Ziggy,” he murmured, cheek smushed against his fist as he watched Alfie work. “Victim of the sin of being spoiled by in-unit laundry. Almost did the whole schtick in the bathtub just to avoid coming down here, but my roommate would’ve thrown me off a cliff for it.” Okay, maybe not actually. Georgia was fine. But he was pretty sure she would’ve at least threatened him with the whole cliff thing.

He tipped his head slightly, giving Alfie a slow, assessing once-over, before humming under his breath as he let the accent sink in. “Hm… English?”

Alfie  grinned,  wide  and  wolfish,  as  he  took  in  Ziggy’s  response,  clearly  pleased  to  have  found  someone  who  wasn’t  about  to  lecture  him  on  “doing  the  right  thing”  or  “being  patient.”

“Now  that’s  what  I  like  to  hear,”  he  said,  leaning  back  against  the  washer  with  an  easy  slouch.  “Finally,  someone  with  a  proper  grasp  of  laundromat  survival  tactics.”

He  tilted  his  head  toward  the  offending  dryer,  still  full  of  someone  else’s  long-forgotten  clothes.  “See,  I  was  thinkin’  the  same—free  game.  You  snooze,  you  lose.  But  figured  I’d  gauge  the  room  first,  y’know—see  if  anyone  was  gonna  call  me  a  menace  before  I  committed  to  the  crime.”

He  paused,  giving  Ziggy  a  once-over,  and  let  out  a  low chuckle,  half  amused,  half…  something  else.  “You  look  like  you’ve  had  a  proper  shite  day,  mate.  That  laundry givin’  you  a  fight  or  just  existential  dread?”

With  zero  hesitation,  Alfie  kicked  out  the  leg  of  a  nearby  plastic  chair,  gesturing  at  it.  “Go  on  then,  sit  your  miserable  arse  down  while  I  handle  the  laundromat  injustice.”

And,  without  any  further  debate,  he  turned  back  to  the  dryer,  popped  it  open,  and  started  tossing  the  abandoned  clothes  into  a  basket  like  it  was  second  nature.

“Name’s  Alfie,  by  the  way,”  he  added  over  his  shoulder,  smirking  slightly.  “Figured  since  you’re  witness  to  my  crimes,  might  as  well  get  acquainted.”

[ziggywho]

Ziggy hates laundry day. Always has, always will.

Having only been back for barely enough time to knock his knees on the carpet of his apartment, he hates to admit he’s gotten used to the luxury of an in-home unit. Now, here he is, crammed in a laundromat that smells like fabric softener and someone's burnt popcorn, wrestling a week's worth of clothes into a machine that probably saw its prime two decades ago.

Sock over shorts over crumpled t-shirt-- he shoves everything in with only a vague attempt at color sorting, his expression as grumpy as it is exhausted. Though, when wasn’t Ziggy grumpy? With a slam of the machine door, Ziggy punches in some setting at random and lets it go, his head thunking onto the metal with a dull clunk. Maybe, if he was lucky, the whirring would rattle his brain loose-- shake something out, relax him for once. At the sound of a voice nearby, though, he lifts his head off the door and glances up at the unfamiliar face. Well. That wasn't too shocking hese days. He'd been gone so long, everyone was an unfamiliar face. Even the familiar ones.

"You'll get eaten alive with that kinda courtesy," he mumbles, his head lifting up fully to get a good look at this guy. Damn. Jesus, Ziggy, keep your head on straight. A slender hand lifts to gesture out towards the lawless lands of laundry, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “Free game. Their fault for slacking.”

who:  open  (@palmviewstarters)

where:  lochness  laundry

alfie  hated  doing  laundry.  hated  it.

not  ‘cause  he  didn’t  like  clean  clothes—obviously,  he  did—but  because  the  entire  process  was  boring  as  shit. waiting  around,  watching  a  machine  spin  his  shirts  in  circles  for  an  hour?  nah.  torture.

but  here  he  was,  sitting  on  top  of  one  of  the  industrial washers  at  lochness  laundry,  legs  swinging  lazily  as  he  scrolled  through  his  phone,  waiting  for  his  clothes  to  finish.  a  half-empty  bottle  of  coke  rested  beside  him,  condensation  pooling  against  the  metal.

it  had  only  been  a  month  since  he  landed  in  palmview, but  he  already  had  a  routine—one  that  mostly  involved  work,  a  lot  of  people-watching,  and  finding  new  ways  to  kill  time  in  a  place  that  felt  too  warm,  too  slow,  but  weirdly  hard  to  leave.

he  glanced  around,  lazily  observing  the  laundromat’s  usual  crowd.  an  older  woman  aggressively  folding  towels.  a  teenager  blasting  music  through  busted  headphones.  a  couple  arguing  quietly  near  the  dryers.  standard  shit.

his  own  clothes  were  still  tumbling  around  in  one  of  the  machines,  so  he  had  nothing  better  to  do  than  wait,  fidget,  and  find  some  poor  soul  to  chat  shit  with.

spotting  the  closest  person  near  him,  alfie  grinned,  tilting  his  head.

“oi,  quick  question,”  he  started,  his  accent  unmistakable.  “is  there  a  rule  ‘bout  how  long  you  gotta  wait  before  stealin’  someone’s  dryer  if  they  ain’t come  back  for  their  clothes?  ‘cause  i  ain’t  tryin’  to  start  a  laundromat  war,  but  i’m  this  close—”  he  held  up  two  fingers,  barely  apart—  “to  chuckin’  some  geezer’s  socks  on  the  floor  so  i  don’t  have  to  be  ‘ere  all  night.”

his  grin  widened,  half-shit-eating,  half-serious.  “what  d’you  reckon?  ten  minutes?  fifteen?  or  straight  to  lawless  savagery?”

[ziggywho]

For the most part, Ziggy was absolutely the type to dwell on things. They lodged themselves in his brain like burrs, festering, looping, twisting into knots that only got tighter the more he pulled. Things he’d said, things he’d done—each one dragging behind him like rusted chains, rattling loudest in the dead of night when sleep refused to come.

It had been worse since coming back to Palmview. Every day stretched longer than the last, time slowing to a suffocating crawl. The edges of tomorrow blurred into forever. Was he stuck here? Again? Forever? And ever? And ever? And ever? Doomed to be alone. Doomed to be in his own personal purgatory. Doomed to return to the cell he thought he’d broken out of, only to sink back into the sand and join the bones buried beneath it.

Jesus. He needed a cigarette.

He barely gets it between his teeth, flicks his lighter, takes one damn drag, when a voice cuts through the suffocating haze in his head. “Jesus Christ,” he wheezes, jolting so hard the smoke burns in his throat. He coughs, waving his hand in front of his face, as if that’ll do anything to clear the cartoon stormcloud of misery and doom he’s been cultivating over his head. He looks up to catch sight of that grin, Emma's signature grin, and his scowl twitches. But some part of him is, God help him, relieved to see her.

“I just got here, and you’re already trying to give me a heart attack.”

closed  starter  for  @ziggywho

for  the  most  part,  emma's  not  the  type  to  dwell  on  things.  she's  learned  to  let  things  go  when  they  didn't  go  her  ways,  which  is  part  of  the  reason  why  it's  so  easy  for  her  to  move  on  from  one  thing  to  another.  it's  not  her  to  take  things  seriously  after  all,  but  on  some  nights  like  this  emma  couldn't  help  the  thoughts  lingering  in  the  back  of  her  mind.  usually  a  night  out  with  friends  would  do  the  trick    –    this  time  she  opts  for  a  walk  at  the  beach    (  thank  god  her  residence  has  a  private  one  and  she's  confident  enough  there  wouldn't  be  many  people  at  time  like  this  )    to  clear  her  mind,  hoping  to  just  sit  in  her  feelings  right  here  without  any  interruption.  taking  one  final  drag  of  her  cigarette  emma  turns  around  after  a  moment,  half  coughing  the  smoke  out  when  she  spots  another  figure  nearby.    “  fucking  hell  ...  you  scared  the  shit  out  of  me,  ”    she  mutters,  quick  to  laugh  it  off  once  she's  no  longer  gasping  for  air.    “  how  long  have  you  been  here?  ”    and  that's  when  she  realizes  it's  ziggy  who  had  found  her,  much  to  her  relief.

[ziggywho]

Ziggy wouldn’t call himself the most emotionally intelligent person, but being a cinematographer, spending so much time thinking about how people moved, how emotions played out in the smallest flickers of expression, meant he noticed things. Even when he didn’t mean to.

Like now.

His gaze lifts just in time to catch the way her face shifts, the flicker of something-- sadness, maybe? Regret? before she smooths it away like a smudge on glass. It lingers in his mind, though, nagging at him, crawling under his skin. She looked sad, Ziggy. Something made hr sad.

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to shake the feeling, trying to listen to the part of him that says to let it drop. That it’s not his business. That he should keep his mouth shut, because what the hell does he know about her life, anyway?

But the other part, the part that’s been burned before, the part that never quite learns its lesson, keeps nudging him forward.

With a quiet sigh, he forces himself to turn toward her, to actually look. And... Jesus. Maybe he should bolt. Because standing here, actually taking her in, feels like stepping into something way out of his league. She was so pretty. But instead of running, he swallows hard, braces himself, and gestures, awkward, hesitant, toward the arcade cabinet.

“…Wanna, um. Try? I could, uh... I could help, if you want.”

curiosity  was  considered  a  flaw  in  nell's  eyes  ,  and  she'd  internally  kicked  herself  for  getting  so  engrossed  in  someone  else's  game.  she  could  blame  the  flashing  lights  and  sound  effects  ,  but  really  she  was  simply  nosey  and  attempting  to  expand  on  her  skills  by  observing  others.  a  hand  lifted  to  wave  in  dismissal  of  his  apology  ,  no  offence  was  taken  and  she  was  usually  a  somewhat  understanding  individual.  "  it's  okay  ,  no  need  to  say  sorry.  "  she  gives  a  reassuring  smile  ,  the  moment  already  gone  over  her  head.  nell  notices  his  reaction and  confusion  paints  porcelain  expression  ,  glancing  behind  her  in  case  something  or  someone  else  caught  his  attention.  "  is  there  something  on  my  face  ?  how  embarrassing...  "  cheeks  colour  a  deeper  shade  of  red  ,  delicate  digits  cautiously  touching  supple  skin  in  search  for  something. 

at  his  gesture  ,  she  turned  to  look  over  her  shoulder  again  in  the  opposing  direction  and  smiled  softly  at  the  teenager  seated  at  the  game.  "  looks  like  she's  in  the  zone  ,  and  it's  shaping  up  to  be  an  intense  one.  "  nell  comments  ,  still  impressed  with  the  skillset  each  arcade  visitor  seemed  to  inhabit  —  perhaps  ,  she  was  way  out  of  her  depth.  "  maybe  i  should've  spent  more  time  here  than  the  dance  studio  when  i  was  growing  up.  "  a  flash  of  sadness  pools  in  amber  gaze  ,  but  it's  gone  in  a  short  second.  

[ziggywho]

And… was that it? Was that how this strange song and dance ended— this push and pull, this current of something that didn’t quite match but never felt unfamiliar? She lured him to the edge, and he, in all his hesitation, gathered the courage to fall.

His fingers twitch like they want to follow, to chase the ghost of her touch before it disappears completely. Instead, they slip into his bag on instinct, fishing out a pen and a crumpled post-it, the edges soft from living too long at the bottom. He scrawls something across it— his hand moving before his brain can catch up, before doubt can make him stop. It’s stupid. Maybe humiliating.

But still.

"Here—" The word comes out rough, barely more than breath. He doesn’t hand it to her. Can’t. He couldn't bear to watch her take it, but the rejection, if it came, would be worse. So instead, he presses the post-it against the nearest shelf, slipping it between the dried passionflowers, their brittle petals somehow looking less dead than they had a moment ago.

Ziggy swallows, forcing himself to meet her gaze. It nearly undoes him.

"...I'm an artist, and... Just—if you ever want to. If you ever..." His voice falters, throat tightening around the weight of the words, around the sheer vulnerability of standing here like this. He wants to say it right. Wants her to understand that this isn’t just some casual invitation, that he isn’t the type to do this often, that she— somehow, impossibly— has made him want to try.

But it’s too much, and he knows he won’t be able to force the rest out. Not today.

So instead, Ziggy nods, slow, slow, sealing something unspoken between them. And then, because it’s all he can do, he turns away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

He won’t wait here forever. He knows that.

But after today, he thinks he might just be waiting a lifetime.

her touch has barely left him, and already, she watches the absence settle in its place. something about it lingers — an echo, an aftertaste, a thread woven too tight into the moment to be undone. and he feels it. she knows he does. the way his breath stutters in his chest, the way his fingers curl and unfurl like they don’t quite know what to do with themselves, the way he speaks to his own palm instead of to her. "am i supposed to just… figure it out?" the words hang between them, weighty and unsteady, like a confession made too softly to take back. his voice is rough, uncertain, and if she weren’t so attuned to the way people break, she might’ve let it pass as something insignificant. but this — this isn’t insignificant. she tilts her head slightly, considering him, considering the question itself. is he asking for an answer? or permission? it would be easy to give him neither. to let him stew in it, let him chase the thought around in circles, let him wrestle with whatever it is he’s too afraid to name. serin has done that before. she knows how to wield patience like a knife, how to press it just close enough to make someone feel the sharp edge of their own hesitation. but this isn’t about control — not entirely. this is about the way he wants. because he does. she can see it, feel it, taste it in the charged air between them. wanting is half the battle. she told him that already. and now he stands at the edge of the other half, toeing the line, wondering if he’s meant to cross it alone. her gaze flickers down, fleeting, as if she’s looking for something in the space between them before it lifts again, steady as ever. "that’s the thing about figuring it out," she says finally, her voice smooth, even, as if the words have been waiting there all along. "you never really do." a beat. a shift. the barest motion of her shoulders, a breath that tastes like amusement, but not quite. "you just… decide what you can live with." her own words settle against her ribs like something familiar, something well-worn. because hasn’t that always been the truth? hasn’t she spent years deciding? shaping herself into something untouchable, something sharp, something no one could unravel unless she let them? hasn’t she learned that the only way to survive is to make peace with the choices you don’t regret enough to undo? ziggy sways in that space — caught between what he wants and what he’s afraid of. she can see it in the way his hand hovers, a gesture not quite completed, in the way his shoulders pull just slightly inward, like he’s bracing for something. she wonders if he even knows what. serin exhales, slow, deliberate, then, a movement, a choice. she reaches — not far, just enough — her fingertips barely grazing the inside of his wrist, a whisper-light touch against the place where his pulse thrums. there. a moment. a certainty. and then it’s gone. "so, figure it out," she says, quiet but firm, like an offering, like a challenge. "or don’t." a beat. a breath. her lips curve — not a smirk, not quite a smile. something softer. something knowing. "but if you're waiting for the answer to just come to you?" she steps back, effortless, the space between them settling into something final, something decisive. "you’ll be waiting forever."

[ziggywho]

"You’re fine, no, it’s—" He exhales sharply, shaking his head at himself. Way to go, Ziggy. Acting like a whole rude ass to a girl who was just being curious. "Really, I shouldn't have yelled or anything. I was just startled, and—"

He finally turns to look at her— and promptly startles again, this time for a much dumber reason. She’s really pretty. Warmth creeps up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and he clears his throat, praying his voice doesn’t betray him.

"Um—" Crack. Right on cue. Fantastic. He pushes forward anyway, hoping she doesn’t notice. "--Yeah. There's, uh… a whole bunch of them. Ms. Pac-Man is actually, uh… the more popular one. She’s— see, there?"

He jerks his chin toward the cabinet just past her shoulder, where that same teenage girl is absolutely demolishing level after level, looking like she’s parked there for the rest of her school night.

infamous  background  music  played  aloud  ,  ringing  clear  in  her  ears  and  she  couldn't  help  but  hum  along  even  as  the  intensity  of  the  beat  sped  up  with  each  second  that  passed.  knuckles  were  white  due  to  the  tight  grip  she'd  secured  on  her  pot  of  tokens  ,  the  anticipation  of  his  win  escalating  within  herself  and  she  hadn't  realised  that  she  was  holding  a  breath  until  he  acknowledged  her  observation  and  jumped  —  to  which  she  gasped  ,  and  took  a  step  back  to  help  him  regain  his  personal  space.  

token  bowl  lifts  to  cover  her  eyes  ,  not  wanting  to  watch  the  death  of  beloved  pac  -  man  and  spine  stiffens  as  she  tries  to  calculate  his  chances  of  escape.  the  game  didn't  sound  like  it  ended  ,  and  she  released  a  sigh  of  relief  at  that  acknowledgement.  "  i'm  sorry  –  i  didn't  mean  to  make  you  jump  like  that  ,  i  was  just  impressed  with  how  well  you're  doing  and  i'm  not  someone  who  has  a  filter.  "  she  admits  with  a  sheepish  grin  ,  still  peering  over  his  shoulder  as  the  game  continues.  "  there's  a  ms.  pac?  "

[ziggywho]

He blinks at her, caught off guard. Wait— was he talking about dinner? God, he can’t even remember. Sometimes Ziggy gets going, and he just nods along, only to realize five minutes later he has no idea what they were even talking about.

“Uh… yeah. Sure— wait.” His eyes narrow, suspicion creeping in. “You’re not gonna rob me blind, are you?”

He huffs, scratching at his cheek. “’Cause if you take me somewhere nice, I will pretend to go to the bathroom and just walk home. No hesitation.”

closed  starter  delivery  for     :     @beauregard-less / @ziggywho

          there’s  a  soft  breeze  and  it’s  enough  to  keep  her  cooler  than  usual,  allowing  her  shoulders  to  relax  and  her  head  to  tilt  back  towards  the  sun  to  enjoy  the  coolness  of  the  wind  and  warmth  of  the  sun  at  the  same  time.  they’re  talking  next  to  her,  interrupting  the  moment  of  silence,  causing  her  to  let  out  a  soft  sigh.   “   fine,  but  i'm  picking  the  restaurant  this  time.   ”

[ziggywho]

His breath catches when she steps closer, held tight in his ribs like a secret he isn’t sure he’s ready to tell. And when she steps back, it knocks loose with the force of something breaking, something cracking open, leaving him hollow and breathless in the wake of it. The air between them feels heavier now, charged with something he can’t name, something he doesn’t know how to hold without it slipping through his fingers. He clears his throat, forces the breath back into his lungs, but it doesn’t make him feel any less unsteady.

His hand lifts-- not to grab, not to offer, but something in between. A gesture. A plea. An unspoken question hovering in the space she’s left behind. Don’t pull too hard. Don’t unravel me just to see what I look like undone.

She’s already flipped the pieces of him over, studied the cracks, the fractures, the places where the glue barely holds. He’s spent so long keeping himself upright, keeping himself from tipping over, and now-- now he doesn’t know what shape he’s supposed to be anymore.

Ziggy was never someone strong. Never someone unshaken, someone who could take the heat of a game and brush off a loss as easily as laughing off a win. He was someone who counted every reason to stay in place, every reason not to move forward, not to turn back. And in that stillness, in that indecision, he’s been sinking—cement in his bones, heavy in his skin, caught between longing and fear.

His fingers curl, slow, before he drops his hand entirely.

“Am I supposed to just… figure it out?” His voice is quiet, rough, more to his palm than to her. Like if he doesn’t say it directly, maybe it won’t feel so much like a confession. Maybe it won’t sting as much.

But the way she plays with his edges, the way she weaves her fingers through his puppet strings and tugs just enough to make him aware of them-- he can feel the burn of it. Feels the way it keeps his gaze lowered, keeps him from looking up, from meeting her eyes and seeing whatever answer she’s already found.

He swallows, the taste of uncertainty thick on his tongue.

“Did you?”

the ghost of her touch lingers in the space between them, weightless and intangible, but there. it hums beneath her skin, an echo, a whisper, something neither of them name but both of them feel. she watches him — really watches him — the way hesitation settles in his bones, the way it threads itself into his voice, rough and quiet, like something raw. like something being uncovered before it’s been polished into an answer. i don’t know. but i think i want to be. her lips part, a breath caught between thought and reaction. there’s a moment where she considers breaking it apart, teasing at the edges, slipping into something easier, something safer, something that doesn’t make her feel like she’s standing at the edge of something unknown, too. but she doesn’t. not this time. instead, she tilts her head, her expression unreadable, but there’s a glint in her eyes, something sharp, something knowing. “that’s the trick, isn’t it?” she muses, rolling the words over her tongue like they’re worth savoring. “wanting is half the battle.” her gaze flickers down, brief, considering, before it lifts again, steady as ever. the flower sits behind her ear like it belongs there, like she’s forgotten it’s even there at all. “most people don’t even get that far.” and she should leave it there. she should let him stew in it, let him chase the answer, let him reach for something he isn’t sure he’s ready to hold. but instead, she shifts — just slightly, just enough. just enough to let the distance between them shrink by a breath, by a fraction of a second, like she’s testing a theory, like she’s seeing if he’ll hold his ground or step back. she studies him for a beat longer, the silence between them thick with possibility. then, a slow curve of her lips — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, something softer, something unreadable. “i think you want to be, too,” she says, voice lower now, more certain, more something. she lets it settle, lets the moment stretch, then — just as easily as she closed the space — she steps back. deliberate. effortless. because wanting is half the battle. but the other half? that’s his move.

[ziggywho]

The touch is gone before he even knows what to do with it, but it leaves something behind, something electric, something raw. It startles him, jolts through his skin like the aftershock of a dream he hasn’t fully woken from. Warmth, fleeting but undeniable, slipping past the walls he’s spent years keeping intact. And she doesn’t even seem to notice what she’s done to him. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s the point.

Her fingers had been warmer than his. But he runs freezing, always has. Cold in a way that isn’t just temperature, that isn’t just flesh and blood but something deeper, something settled into his bones like a permanent guest. And yet, for that brief second, he had felt real. Tangible. Not a shadow lingering at the edges of the world’s awareness, not something half-there, half-forgotten. Someone. Someone who exists, who breathes, who can be touched.

The thought unsettles him, twists at the edges of clay and stone that made up his body.

And then the flower is gone. Plucked from his grasp, twirled between her fingers like it’s weightless, like it’s nothing at all. And he watches, watches the way she tucks it behind her ear with the kind of carelessness that can only come from knowing exactly what she’s doing. As if it had always belonged there. As if it had always belonged to her.

Like the world was made for her.

His breath is slow, steady, but his fingers curl slightly at his sides, betraying the restless energy simmering just beneath his skin. The air between them is charged, something precarious balanced on the edge of possibility, and her words only push it further.

You just have to be willing.

Ziggy swallows, glancing down, then back up, meeting her gaze like he’s trying to find the answer in it. Maybe he already knows what it is. Maybe he’s just never said it out loud before.

“…I don’t know,” he admits, voice quieter, rougher. “But I think I want to be.”

she doesn’t move to take the flower. not right away. instead, she watches him — really watches him — the way his fingers hold it like it’s something delicate, something with weight beyond its size. the way his words land like a confession he wasn’t sure he wanted to make. there’s something raw in it, something that hums beneath the surface like an old wound that never quite healed right. her expression shifts, just slightly. something flickers through her eyes, quick as a spark — recognition, understanding, something softer than she usually allows herself to show. because this? this isn’t bravado. it’s not posturing. it’s someone standing at the edge of something unknown, something uncertain, and daring to look down. “it is,” she says finally, voice quieter now, more measured. but there’s still that gleam in her eyes, that sharp edge of challenge wrapped in something almost kind. “it’s terrifying, too. disorienting. sometimes you fall. sometimes you land wrong. but…” she exhales, tilting her head, gaze unwavering. “there’s a kind of freedom in it, if you let yourself lean in.” then, finally, she reaches out. but not for the flower. her fingers brush against his instead, a fleeting touch, there and gone in the span of a breath. not claiming, not demanding. just acknowledging. just being. then she takes the flower, rolling the stem between her fingers, thoughtful. “you don’t have to know how to be,” she muses, tucking it behind her ear with an almost careless grace. “you just have to be willing.” she steps back, a slow, deliberate shift of weight, and her lips curve — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. “so?” she lifts a brow, tilting her chin ever so slightly. “you willing?”